2 january

Days slither by, identical twins on identical slices of concrete: i am starting to grow mold. I've dried my last bit from the social-bank, frantically too-early used up my reserve of pettish enigma and now am alone, stagnating in my own sour air. I cannot cannot be a happy introspective. Why then does one clutch so tightly one's cankerous philosophies, a prisoner of one's own cognition?

We are all straining for someone to rearrange us; the tall slick stranger who will unbuckle all our pieces and align the edges the way they were meant to be matched. But-- if we half-animates, stuck in the crack between plastic and alive, won't take a protege: someone dull and straw-filled, and teach them to be alive: why should we be protected and made whole? We are all waiting under umbrellas with holes, for a bus that will never arrive.

But you-- unbutton yourself. Unbuckle. You have been fortunate-- you have been subsidized by several darling girls. You have not been allowed to atrophy under your own glass jar.

I must suck in cold air and revitalize: stop philosophy-ing, stop stirring up my insides. Get to work. Read and Read and Read. Wait for new shipment of books-- should have arrived several days ago-- John Green, Steinbeck, Kaysen, Rushdie. Write something every day even if it is muck, for practice. Short story ideas-- write & send off. Open the earth's eyes and ears and mind and feverishly suck out the contents: so much material floating about in so many untapped cerebrals. Sing sing sing. Rearrange surroundings: do not let self stagnate. Read in Message translation rabidly rabidly, finish Isaiah and Daniel, start in Torah (especially prophets). Rearrange yourself in the absence of a rearranger. Oh you will live and not yet die while you are still alive.

"there is no such thing as simple truth anymore"

"smart people build walls about themselves-- smarter people tear their own down--"